Then I'll be Gone
by PiffPoffSplash
Summary: The beautiful thing is - Lucifer can't take what isn't freely offered.


It always had to be Sam. Long before Sam was even a though in his parent's mind, and before there was a word for the species known as humans and God demanded that the angels kneel before them. Sam's destiny was woven in the essence of time itself, molding and growing and crawling to the point when Azazel found himself standing over a crib.

In a time perfectly constructed by cupid's mark upon two hearts, destiny finds the being named Sam Winchester. It wraps itself around him like a blanket as his mother is ripped at the core above him.

Sam will not remember this moment, but he will be running from it the rest of his life.

..

It started with a drop of blood (it started with a promise-_Oh, you can keep your soul. I just need permission_.)

Lucifer can almost see the demon blood spread through Sam's veins – flowing into his heart, snaking up his spine and into his brain. He can practically hear it claim the child –_mine_.

Oh, but it's wrong. So very wrong. Sam has always, will always, belong to one creature. He was made for Lucifer and he'll be claimed when he whispers: _Yes_.

This is the moment Sam's body stops being Sam's (not wholly, but the Winchester will always put up a fight- until he doesn't). Time split and fractured into thousands of paths that would bring Sam to him. The time, place, none of it mattered except for the final line. Curtain call ladies and gentlemen. Exit Sam Winchester stage left.

The angel will one day tell the (annoying, meddling one that will believe in free will and change) other Winchester that time is fluid. It won't be-is not-a lie. This is how Lucifer knows that Sammy will say yes. He can hear the whisper now, even as Sam promises himself otherwise. Can see himself pour into his vessel as it stares so defyingly into him. The posturing would be cute, if it wasn't so pathetic.

The truth is: Sam Winchester will be Sam for 26 years. Lucifer was Lucifer since the beginning, he will be Sam for a microsecond, until the core burns and there's nothing left but a whisper and a cry, dying out completely when a white shoe breaks a pale neck.

_Yes_, he hears, and he drinks it like wine.

..

There are many things inside Sam that Lucifer can admire, once he understands what this Winchester boy is capable of. The anger pulses inside the boy's subconscious, boiling and popping, ready to be unleashed and to take control (of the boy, of the world). He is raw and powerful and pure- the perfect creature.

(Lucifer will admire Sam's power but it's not until Sam succumbs to the anger bubbling inside him that Lucifer will come to love him).

There are also things that annoy Lucifer, but he's always been honest, never once lied-especially to himself- and he accepts the flaws (will swallow them up just add easily as he'll swallow Sam whole).

Sam's will is made of iron. Stronger and more resolved than most (Lucifer knows every soul that was weak enough to barter for wealth, for strength to attain everything they couldn't). The trick is a meticulous belief in himself-in his brother-in the ever so silly idea that he can change, be something different than what he knows himself to be. The longer he believes in himself the more he thinks this world-this anger- will not break him.

(It will)

The thing of it is: if you believe in something too much, well, then that very thing becomes a lie.

Sam could try to change-and he does (with a solid fist and am open heart), but with every good intention, every life saved and ghoul killed, the anger lingers and whispers. It wears him down and tears at him, slowly and deliberately, crumbling the resolve he builds around himself. The justifications come easily enough- _I had no choice. You were in hell dean, and I had to get you out. This saves people._

It destroys (rebuilds and betters) him. Takes down everyone he cares for-_you picked a demon over your brother?_- but Sam is deaf to it all. The first step towards his destiny tastes bitter and warm as it slides down his throat (Ruby will smile, say: Good boy). There's a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn back, it's not too late, but it's fading away, lost in chaos.

He refuses to see the beauty of it all. He won't until the final moment, when he drops to his knees in a parking lot in Detroit. But with every drop of blood he licks with revulsion, the transformation spreads and twists, deepens and secures itself in the core of his being. Even if Sam wants to ignore what's inside of him, he can't run from the truth.

If Lucifer knew it would only take throwing his brother into the pit, he would have whispered to Azazel centuries ago. Pity Sam can't hear him screaming.

Sam wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with shaking hands. There's beauty in his desperation.

Oh, Sam Winchester, it's too late to go back.

_Dean_, Sam whispers and he shuts his eyes tight.

(_Sammy_, Dean screams before his tongue is ripped out).

..

Sam's skin constricts and stretches, already hinting at the battle the boy will wage against himself. So he reads, he reads and studies and tries out for the soccer team when his father is on a particularly long hunt. The distractions are almost enough. Until Sam looks in the mirror and sees something swimming in the depths of his eyes. It swirls and fades, a shadow he can't quite place. It makes his stomach twist with a feeling he doesn't want to name. Sam knows, he _knows_ he's different, but he splashes cold water on his face and whisper_, normal. I_ (want to be) _am normal_.

He blinks hard and when he opens his eyes, there is only his reflection staring back at himself. These are the moments that Sam convinces himself that it's all in his head (he won't recognize them as a lie). Dean's right, it's just the backlash of knowing that the monster under your bed is real and that you need to stab it in the heart before it drags you into the dark.

A quick shake of the head and he feels like Sammy again. It's almost enough to make him laugh if it wouldn't draw too much attention to himself.

_I'm okay_, he says (and believes it). _I'm fine_.

"Hand me that gun," he says when he rejoins Dean at the table. It smells like metal and oil and home.

Sam's skin is hot, oh so hot. _Help me, Dean_, he moans and he twists in his blankets (twists in his skin), but he can't get away- he won't get away. A hand is placed on his forehead and it's so cool and calming, he loses himself in the feeling; doesn't hear the muffled, _fuck_.

_"You're burning up, Sammy_," Dean says and moves to stand. He pauses when a hand shoots from the covers and grabs his wrist.

"No." It's delirious, almost panicked. "Don't leave…I promise I'll get better. Normal."

There's a brief glimpse of a smile that he doesn't see, the ruffling of hair he barely feels. "You'll feel normal once I get some medicine into you."

When he wakes, Sammy has no memory of the heat, just a tremor that Dean promises will go away once he's fully recovered

And Sam, Sam believes him.

Sam stares as his knuckles, his fingers, his hands. He stretches is palm until the skin is reddish and tight, looking past the creases and into his veins. In a different place, created of fire and hatred and greed, Lucifer's presence will vibrate and pulse. _Such wonderful hands_, he thinks, _we'll do such beautifully dreadful things with those hands_. Sam doesn't hear him, and for a brilliant moment, feels right at home in his skin.

..

He has nightmares, all children do.

Few wake with the taste of blood lingering in their mouths. But Sammy pushes down the memory as he fills his bowl with lucky charms and milk.

It will take Sam several years to realize his nightmares are different (_no no no, I'm normal_), like something crawling out of his skin (imbedding itself into his flesh). Like something inside of his mind is claiming his thoughts, tainting his memories, and his desires. He's too young to understand the danger, too weak to remember the nightmares when he wakes in the middle of the night.

On particularly bad nights, he wakes with the feeling of loss and rage, but swallows them down with his first cup of water. If only he could swish them around his mouth and spit them down the drain. But a small part of him is realizing that it's not that simple. Nothing in their life ever is. But he hangs onto the hope that this is just a phase that he'll grow out of. He's over stressed, sleep-deprived, under-living.

There's a brief moment when Sam thinks this can be easy. Deep breath, followed by an explanation and maybe, just maybe, Dean will be able to make everything okay. He's not sure when Dean lost the ability to make everything go away, maybe it was after the first time Sam pulled the trigger. But when he opens his mouth, he knows he's going south. "I'm fine," then after a pause, "Really." He stabs at the eggs, to distract himself from Dean's stare. It's solid and perfectly attuned, waiting for a slip that will call out the charade. Dean's made for hunting and it shows.

Dean leans back in his chair. Anyone else would think he's backing off, but Sam knows well enough that he's just beginning the attack. "Sammy-"

"I have dreams," The words are rushed and stumble. He's too scared to elaborate- say that he doesn't feel right and maybe the dreams aren't just dreams, after all. Maybe it's not all in his head and the anger- Oh god, the anger.

"Dreams?" Two eyebrows shoot up in confusion. "Like two bikini models and a hot tub dreams?"

Sam shakes his head. "More like nightmares."

"Jesus Sammy," Dean takes a deep breath and Sam doesn't miss the way her rolls his eyes. (These are the times he thinks he misses his mother, even if he doesn't know what that's suppose to feel like in the first place). "Our lives are dark enough without you torturing yourself in your sleep."

"I know but.." he doesn't know how to end the sentence.

Dean eases up – he always does- and offers him a smile. "You're letting things get to you, Sammy." He taps his finger on the table. "You need a day to unwind. Have some fun, if you still remember how. Go to the movies, find a girl." His shrug comes entirely too easily. Like that's something they can just do.

"Yeah, okay." He doesn't sound convincing, not even to himself.

"Look," Dean rubs at his eyes before looking at Sam. "I'll stay up tonight. If something comes up, I'll take care of it." (Lucifer doesn't like this one, can't wait to tear his throat out and watch him bleed). He sounds so certain and Sam wants to believe him so bad, so he does.

That night, Sam closes his eyes and sleeps the whole night through.

It's a temporary solution to a lifelong problem. Brought on by Sam's nieve belief in Dean's promise to take care of him. Sam still won't doubt the promise when the nightmares return -won't doubt Dean for a few years yet, and then he'll turn his back on his brother completely-but he doesn't mention anything to Dean. He never will again. Not until Jessica. Not until the blood is bubbling in his veins, calling to him about his powers, his purpose. And then it's too late.

(He dreams of fires and of creaking floors. He dreams of a smile that turns blue and of a scream that never has time to leave bruised lips. He dreams of bodies bloated in the water but still reaching, grabbing.

He dreams of pale green eyes and a boy that kills with a knife but never lifts his hands. He dreams-

And he begs not to).

..

Lucifer hears whispers (rumors and truths and prophecies). He hears about the first time Sam shoots at a target and hits. About the time Sam hits a bully in the face and _likes_ it. There is also the first hunt, of course (a two penny ghost. Sam nearly dropped the bag of salt but Dean's there to keep him steady), and his first kill, then the fifth, and then the tenth. Most importantly, he hears about the fights. The first fight about needing to finish his homework and the final fight that ended with two suitcases and a car heading towards California.

But it goes beyond the whispers and the half truths. This is how Lucifer knows he's connected to his vessel, that he'll hear him say yes and give himself over. Lucifer _feels_. The sense of victory and pride, of doubt and regret. It's all well and nice, but it's the other senses that have been beaming with excitement: power and rage. Sam breathes them in and holds them down, feeding his body like oxygen. Fingers settle on his stomach like an anchor, trapping them in pace inside himself before he opens his eyes and forces the feelings out (_out out out_)

(this is the start of creation).

The anger builds steady enough. Anger over moving –again. Changing schools-again. Being the freak-again (_again and again and again_). Who could blame him for resenting the man that forced this life on his sons with the click of metal and a stern – _this isn't up for debate, boys_. How could he ignore Dean's obedient nod without his knuckles clenching at his sides. This was their life and it was being taken away by a man he barely knew but had to call father.

How could he not hate the constant change of wallpapers (and motels and states and people) until nothing felt familiar except for the knife that he keeps tucked in his backpack?

..

A few things become apart to Sam when he runs away from his old life.

The first thing is that no matter how fast, or far, he runs, how much he changes, or changes the people are him, there is no escaping past (Sam uses the word 'past' because he still doesn't understand that his life was altered by _who_ he was. It never altered him. It will take several years to come to this realization and Sam will hate himself for it).

The second thing is that he never finds what he's looking for. Oh, he can play the part well enough – attentive boyfriend, straight A-student, scholarships and friendships and hell, a cooking class on Fridays. And if there's a tiny voice inside of him needing more, twisting and turning and keeping him up at night, well, Sam's always been good at drowning what's inside of him.

Lucifer knows it's because he's looking for the wrong things. Sam's running, but he's running in the wrong direction. It's only a matter of time before he runs out of breath. He's a smart boy, after all. Gears are already clicking and moaning, coming together with an unignorable force that will come together when Dean breaks into his home and starts it all.

Precautions were taken – friends and lovers, dates and professors. Perfectly constructed pawns to guide Sam. It will be an ultimate reminder that Sam's life was never really his own. Just a constructed pathway leading him down to the faithful moment when Dean will stand at his side, but Sam will still whisper yes.

Or another path: two brothers broken by betrayals, separated by lies they could never stop telling. That Sam would stand alone. He would accept Lucifer's gift without the pretense of overpowering him, but he'll still think of Dean before he's completely buried beneath the power that engulfs him. (Lucifer likes this version of Sam better – but the steps, the turns, those are not his to decide. Those are Sam's alone. So he'll sit and watch and take whatever Sam he's offered).

..

Lucifer sees destinies come together and lay forgotten, stepping stones forming one specific path. Choices made and broken as if there was actually a _choice_. All spinning and weaving and cementing themselves to two times, one place – Lawrence, Kentucky and the birth of two boys that would be so much greater than themselves- if only they would say the word yes.

Dean Winchester is (a flame flickering against the breeze) nothing. Michael will make him great, if only for a second- unless he submits and stands with the brother he swore to watch over a millennia ago. Though Lucifer loves, he won't let anyone come between him and Sam. How could he when the very workings of their Father all lead down to this final path? Dean is (inconsequential, a bug underneath the sole of a shoe) nothing, but Sam, Sam is destined to be incredible. Lucifer sees it, feels it, vibrates with the energy of it.

This is the moment that Sam fails himself –Dean, Bobby, the world. This is the moment he makes up for every flaw and wins Lucifer's love. Sam's anger drowns out Dean-_Sam, Sammy-_ possessing and taking everything that it's been promised until Lilth's blood is sinking into the grooves of the marble floor, sinking down deeper than hell itself, until the cage is unlocked and Lucifer sets foot upon his Father's creation.

..

_I can save people_, Sam thinks and it's not a lie. He kills poltergeists and stops a banshee, throws a machete to Dean just in time for his brother to cut off a vampire's head and save the girl with the black mascara and fake tattoo. People thank them, or don't, then they go back to their lives and _live_.

The truth is, even though it's thankless and leaves an exhaustion that cuts to the bones, it's enough (or so he lets himself believe). It has to be enough because the alternative is unbearable. So when he smiles at Dean after a hunt, Sam means it. Muscles loosen in his shoulders as the weight is lifted and lost (it returns, always does, but in this moment, it's enough).

So he has another cut Dean is going to have to stitch and breathing is going to feel more like a chore than a life function for a week. Every body that is salt and burned means that he's fighting this thing inside of him.

The blood still expands and pulses but Sam is too removed to feel it (doesn't want to feel it and oh, how it spits in protest). _Mine_, it pulses, nearly purrs. _This one can't have what is mine_. Sam reaches for another beer and throws one to Dean. He actually thinks this is working, that they are working. Doesn't yet know it will be taken away by howls and teeth and claws. They'll only allow greed for so long, after all.

He doesn't know that feeling like he's winning is actually losing.

The hardest lesson he'll ever learn: he never had a chance.

The lesson begins in San Francisco - there's a girl, there always is. Lucifer forgives him this indiscretion, this lapse in flesh. flesh is weak, filthy, unworthy. Sam will learn this when his time comes. One taste of the brilliance Lucifer offers he'll be stronger and better for it.

The girl (doesn't get a name, isn't worthy of a name) dies with tears in her eyes and Sam's bullet in her head. She doesn't get a name but she serves her purpose. Teaches Sam that not everyone can be saved, even if they want to be.

It ends with Dean denying a promise and Sammy doubting that Dean can save him (that he can save himself). Sam saves people but they don't save him. There is nothing to save him from. There is just a gift- beautiful and infinite.

..

_(NothingwillhappentoyouwhileI'maround)_

There is nothing. Nothing at all. The phone rings until it stops, stops calling altogether after weeks of silenced ringers and voicemails. Sam lets the voicemails play, picking out sentences before they drift away – _Don't do anything stupid, boy _and _This ain't easy on any of us, you hear? So don't go checking out on me _and _I already lost one of you boys, don't make me lose two _and finally_ You'll know where I'll be._

Sam takes a breath and feels the emptiness inside of him growing, hollowing him out one organ at a time until there's nothing left of him but the memory of Dean's screaming. It's only natural that Ruby rubs against him, picks up the pieces that he can't be bothered to find. And if all the pieces don't quite fit, he chalks it up to something he'll never get back, not since he dug a grave he never wanted to dig. If he feels empty or incomplete, he chalks it up to a grave he never wanted to dig. Sam picks at his hands, swears he can still feel the dirt packed under his nails.

(_You'llbefine, _)

Liquor burns the back of his throat but he cringes through the pain. Dean would make a joke, say he's proud, then get reserved – _we never really drink together, do we_? – before taking off Sammy's shoes and leading him to bed. The fingers slipping the bottle out of his hand are too small, too smooth to be Dean's, but Sammy wants them to be. Would give anything for them to be.

"Sam." Determined, and feminine. "This isn't going to bring him back."

Sam reaches for the bottle and misses. "I tried everything," The words stumble off of his tongue, fall flat on his chest making it hard to breath. "God, I tried everything."

"I know," the words are too soothing, too sweet. Sam loses himself in the warmth, forgets himself in the touch. "I can't bring him back, Sam, but I can help you get revenge."

Sam swears he feels his veins pulse in his hands but blames in on the alcohol and heat. "I'll burn them all," Sam says, and he means it.

"You know what you have to do."

Sam forgets the bottle as he reaches for the demon knife, instead. He takes what Ruby offers – mind, body, and blood.

This is how he justifies it: Sam can't bring Dean back, but he can take down piece of demon scum that helped put him in his grave. Difficult choices were part of the gig, they've lived with sacrifice long enough to know there is no escaping it. So if he has to give a part of himself, lose a piece of himself to gain enough strength to take down Lilith and her gang of followers, Sam would do it.

It helps until it doesn't. But he lets the lives he saves cover up the growing hole in his chest. If he couldn't live for himself, he could live for this.

Shouldn't it be enough then, when Sam opens the door to see Dean?

(it's not.

_Mine, _it whispers, _this one could never have him_, and claims him).

..

_Why me_? Sam asks as his heart breaks. _Why does it have to be me? _ It always had to be Sam. It was written in the dirt and carved into tree trunks and bones buried beneath the ground. It hung in the air like a rainstorm waiting to hit hot pavement.

It always had to be Sam Winchester so Lucifer meets him when night turns to morning and makes his offer. He will never lie, he will never trick, but he always gets what he wants.

"Yes," Sam says with a shaking head. "Yes."

-fin-

This is the product of starting to write something at 3am in the morning. It's a darker take on Sam's anger - stemming from a few things he said about it throughout the series. I guess it touches all realities - real and End!verse because, hey, time is fluid. Please let me know what you think! Feedback is love!


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